


Courtly Love

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2004-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:16:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3745374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This began as a shameless indulgence for my inner fan girl (you'll see why if you read on), in the hope of placating her for a while, but it has turned into a sort of soft hearted, humourous antidote to courtly love, and one possible solution to the old ‘how did Thorongil get his name?’ question…</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And I have been thinking a lot about what sort of person Grima's dad may have been. I rather like the old goat.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Finally finished after languishing for three years without a final chapter!  Any thoughts welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Queen and the Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

As Morwen glanced through the branches towards the river, she became aware of a shape moving swiftly through the water, not twenty feet from where she sat. Lithe limbs were powering against the current, first upstream and then towards the further bank, where a small pile of belongings awaited their owner’s return. A moment later, the figure rose into an upright position and emerged from the water with back turned towards her. The young man, for such it was, stood on the bank, naked in the evening sun. He was tall, taller than her husband by far and the abundance of raven hair falling some way below his shoulders accentuated his height even more. The flowing locks still held their waves despite the weight of the water and they glistened as he moved his head; like a great handsome hound, thought Morwen, and smiled to herself. Neither too broad nor too thin in the shoulders, his musculature looked trained to the sort of lean strength that lends speed and agility, while his chest tapered pleasingly to a slender waist.

The queen found herself warming to this spontaneous pleasure, sensual and uncensored, a rare enough opportunity amid the constraints of life at Meduseld. She was just about to let her gaze wander a little lower when she froze, for the young man half turned in her direction, as though conscious that he had an audience. She dared not move, for if she did he would certainly see her and she must not be discovered. He stood in profile for a moment, watching the westering sun, revealing a face that irresistibly drew her attention. It was a little longer than the average, with high sculpted cheeks and a fine, slightly aquiline nose above a bearded chin; a young man’s beard, not yet fully formed, but trimmed, though without precision, for what need did such a face have for vanity? It bore little resemblance to the flatter, fuller features of the men she knew at court. She looked on his eyes then, and held her breath. They were deep set and grey, or green, or silver, she could not tell at that distance; but like the sea, they seemed of varied hue and temper, now stormy, now calm, now bright, now dark and forbidding. And she knew that if once they turned on her she would not escape their gaze, for as the eyes of the eagle that soared over the mountain, they bore an intensity that could surely cut like ice. And something in their depths spoke of sadness, a distant memory or longing, a mind that walked in that moment in another place.  
  
Again, she surveyed his physique, appraising every muscle, every feature, though with rather more than her artist’s eye, she readily confessed. Unhurriedly the young man began to dress, not much concerned with drying his body, for there was plenty of warmth still in the evening air. He took up a blue shirt, crumpled but of good cloth, and pulled on a pair of dark hose, somewhat worn with travel, but well cut. Then a soft leather sleeveless jerkin, which he laced down the front, and finally knee length boots. The queen hardly knew which enhanced the other more, the garb its owner or the body its covering. He sat down on the bank with his long legs stretched out before him and took bread and cheese and apples from his pack. Then, prising the bread apart with slender hands, he began to eat. On his left fore finger there glinted a band of silver in the evening light.  
  
Despite her fear of discovery, a part of Morwen would gladly have stayed there long into the night to see how the moonlight might play on his ivory skin and tousled mane. But presently the youth rose in a single graceful movement, gathered up his pack, a longbow and broadsword and departed west along the river. Seconds later a call from the trees informed the queen that she was missed, and wearily she began to make her way back to her escort. Then Éothain appeared over the brow of the rise leading the queen’s horse, tension in his face at his mistress’s spontaneous show of independence.

‘My lady, it is not wise for you to wander alone. You must tell me if you wish to walk and then I may accompany you.’ His voice was wearisome to Morwen for she had suffered it all afternoon.  
  
‘And if I wish to walk alone?’ she countered. Of course, she knew the answer, but it half amused her to see the alarm on his face. ‘I have dwelt in this land for three years,’ she concluded, ‘and I believe that I might find my way home to Meduseld if I put my mind to it, my lord Éothain. Though it is, I confess, a great distance.’ The hill on which Edoras sat was plainly visible not half a mile down-river.

‘My lady,’ the guard simpered as he tried to cover his embarrassment. ‘I would not wish to offend, but I am charged with your protection by the King.’  
  
‘I know it well, Éothain, and far be it from me to bring the wrath of Thengel on your head.’ Morwen smiled her resignation, and over his shoulder watched the sun as it began its final descent in a fiery haze. Then she caught sight of the young man, nearing the fords now, and the rest of the evening ride suddenly lost its appeal. ‘After all, who knows what terrors might have befallen me had I been by myself? But come, I am weary. Let us go home.’

She mounted her mare and rode away, leaving Éothain hurriedly to return to the trees to fetch his own steed. Trotting ahead, she passed the stranger as he was crossing the Snowbourne. She had not intended to stop, but curiosity overcame her and so she turned to await him on the further bank. The other remained some distance behind, for Éothain was in truth more respectful of the queen’s privacy than his posting strictly allowed. He had, however, not yet seen the stranger.

A dark woollen cloak now covered the traveller’s clothes; worn and dusty, it had evidently taken the brunt of whatever recent journeys he had undertaken. It hung raggedly where it reached his knees, torn and frayed, but at his shoulder, it was clasped by a fine silver pin in the shape of a rayed star, that shone brightly in the evening light and intrigued Morwen as she watched him cross the ford. He halted a few paces from the queen and regarded her with interest. The keen eyes were grey after all, quicksilver with a hint of steel, like the slate from the mountains of Lossarnach.

‘Sir,’ the queen opened informally. ‘You are late to be entering the town, for the gates are shut at dusk.’  
  
It was apparent from the young man’s quizzical gaze that he had not understood a word. But then an engaging half-smile played at his lips, and he bowed low. Morwen almost laughed. She had been in Rohan too long if here she was, failing to recognise a native of her own Gondor.  
  
‘Forgive me,’ she began again in the noble tongue. ‘The gates will be closed to travellers by now. You will not be granted entry if the gatekeepers do not know you and you have no token of surety.’  
  
The man glanced at her in some surprise. For a moment, she thought him about to answer, but then he shrugged his shoulders. It occurred to the queen that his ivory skin was somewhat pale for him to be a compatriot. She had guessed too hastily, despite the candid introduction at the riverbank. The common speech would have to suffice.

This time she succeeded.

‘My lady, I ask your pardon,’ he replied. ‘I confess I have been long on the road, and have given but little thought to tonight, save only that I wished to reach Edoras.’ He spoke softly with an accent that had music in it, his words accurate but a little cautious, like one who, though fluent in the lingua franca of the west, has lacked much opportunity to practise.  
  
‘You have travelled far?’

‘From north and west of the Misty Mountains. I have been walking for many days. I should be sorry not to sleep on a bed tonight, though I dare say one more night shall not trouble me over much.’  
  
‘I hope that the hospitality of the Rohirrim will spare you that. What is your business in Edoras?’

Before he could reply, the sound of hooves caused the man to turn, just as Éothain rounded the side of the hill and clattered across the stony ford. His bow was drawn and at his shoulder even as he reached them. The stranger raised his hands in gesture of friendship.  
  
‘Stay where you are and give me your weapons.’ Dismounting, Éothain swiftly relieved the other of his bow and sword. The young man made no attempt to oppose him, though his gentle features darkened abruptly into a grim mask, like the shutting of a door. Éothain kept an arrow aimed at his chest.  
  
‘Peace, Éothain,’ said Morwen, slipping back into Rohirric. ‘This fellow seeks nothing save the comfort of a bed for the night, and has assaulted me only with words of courtesy.’

‘Is he known to you, my lady?’ Éothain looked troubled and did not relax his bow.

‘As well as any man,’ she replied, and smiled. Turning to the stranger she continued, ‘The nights here are cold even in the summer. Come. Despite appearances, guests who come in peace are welcomed at Edoras.’  
  
Éothain nodded, though his face said otherwise. He did not offer the man back his weapons and stayed very close to the queen as they rode slowly up to the gates. Walking in front, the tall stranger said nothing, but looked in wonder at Meduseld at the top of the hill, for the great hall had caught the last rays of the setting sun and was shining in what seemed a blaze of golden flames.


	2. The Queen and her escort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This began as a shameless indulgence for my inner fan girl (you'll see why if you read on), in the hope of placating her for a while, but it has turned into a sort of soft hearted, humourous antidote to courtly love, and one possible solution to the old how did Thorongil get his name? question

‘There is a lodging house there,’ said Éothain stiffly and pointed to the long low thatched building that served for guest friends in the town. ‘You may not bear weapons in Edoras without the king’s leave, and he is not at court. But when you wish to go they will be returned to you.’  
  
‘I thank you for your kindness,’ answered the stranger, and took his leave.  
  
When the grooms had taken the horses and they were entering the hall, Éothain began again. He had been shaken by the encounter, or more particularly by his own carelessness. ‘My lady, I must respectfully ask you not to speak with strangers while the king is abroad. Your position is vulnerable. How well do you know this man?’  
  
Morwen paused. The feint had gone further than she intended. But she was not minded to admit her little jest, much less to explain the truth of it. ‘Well enough, my lord. And may I not pass the time of day with a weary traveller to our land, but let him suppose that we are a hostile and ill mannered people that instead of greeting our guests we treat them as foes?’

‘That is not my intention, my lady. But not all are as they seem. And others may perform this duty that you need not consort with the common folk.’  
  
‘He is no commoner,’ Morwen returned with real irritation. ‘Did you see the brooch that pinned his cloak?’  
  
‘I did. But fine trinkets may be stolen and a fair face conceal a deceitful mind. If this had been one with ill intentions toward you he might have tricked you before I could intervene.’  
  
Morwen bit her lip. She knew that Éothain’s unease was born of self-reproach and she knew too that ordinarily she would herself have been the first to follow the rules of court. But today at the river she had felt liberated, excited even, like the young woman from Lossarnach who, sixteen years ago, had never thought to wed a future king and who had consorted with whom she chose. And spying the young man had made her feel like a girl again, but also more than a little confused. She sought her children in an effort to assuage her ambivalence and to remind herself that these days she was above all a mother.


	3. The Stranger and the Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This began as a shameless indulgence for my inner fan girl (you'll see why if you read on), in the hope of placating her for a while, but it has turned into a sort of soft hearted, humourous antidote to courtly love, and one possible solution to the old how did Thorongil get his name? question

The next morning, however, the queen rose late and informed her attendants that she would remain in Meduseld and needed no escort that day. Once Éothain was gone to attend to his own business, she bade one of the young lads take a message to the guesthouse ‘for the traveller who came in last night’.  
  
For propriety’s sake she instructed Mæg to remain with her. The king’s childhood nurse had never learned the common tongue, which made her an ideal chaperone. Moreover, she was becoming rather deaf, though her sight was still as sharp as ever when it suited her. Then Morwen settled in the hall to break her fast and await the stranger.

When he entered, she studied him anew, as if checking that he was the same and not some vision that her fancy had invented for itself. If it were possible, he looked more beautiful after a night’s rest even than she remembered.  
  
The young man bowed his head and then knelt.

‘Forgive me, my lady Morwen. I knew not when we met yesterday that you were the Queen of the Golden Hall.’

‘There is nothing to forgive, sir, for how could you have known? Please, sit.’ She motioned to a chair and he obediently sat down. ‘Now eat and tell me about yourself. It is not often that such fair folk walk in Edoras.’

Abashed by the compliment, he hesitated, ‘There is little to tell, my lady. My home is far beyond the Misty Mountains, but I desired to see the lands to the south and learn about peoples other than my own, so I set out before the burdens of age prevented me. I seek to serve, if I may.’

‘And what is your name?’  
  
His eyes hardened just a little behind their heavy lids. ‘In my homeland we do not use our given names except with our close kin. A good name is a title that a man must earn, not that which his mother gives him. You may call me what you will, my lady.’  
  
‘That is a strange custom, young man. I have named my children and my hounds, but I have never named a man full grown, and a stranger at that. It is our habit to be wary of strangers who are less free with their given names than are we ourselves.’  
  
She surveyed him once more as he raised a drinking cup to his mouth, startled to find that she was imagining the touch of those long fingers on her face. Abruptly she pulled herself together. He sat, unmoved by her last remark, composed now and slightly aloof, as though in truth it was he who was appraising the queen.

‘Perhaps I shall find a name for you in due course,’ she added, ‘when I know you better. But tell me, how would you serve Rohan?’  
  
‘I can ride and fight with sword or bow, my lady,’ replied the young man. ‘And I have some skill as a hunter.’

‘Indeed?’ Morwen feigned indifference. ‘That can be said of all the youth of the Riddermark. A hunter of what, I wonder? But it may be that we shall find other uses for you also. The king shall determine your fate on his return, should he deem you worthy of his service.’

Almost shyly, she found herself putting out her hand to touch the star at his shoulder. ‘That is a very fine piece, sir,’ she ventured. ‘Where did you come by it?’  
  
‘It is but an emblem of my house, of little worth but considerable age.’

‘And that ring?’ Twin silver bands entwined an intricate path about his finger, but she could not make out their design without turning his hand in hers, and the idea was enough to make her heart skip a beat. Remembering that they were not alone, she thought better of it.

‘It is of even greater age, and belonged to my forefathers, my lady.’

The queen watched her guest slowly eat a piece of the freshly baked bread and sip tea. No, he was no commoner. Presently she reached for the security of more mundane matters.  
  
‘I trust your lodgings are to your liking.’  
  
‘They are the like of a palace, compared to my sleeping arrangements of late.’

‘And the fare? I am told that it is good, but I think that many fear to offend by saying otherwise.’  
  
That disarming half-smile again. ‘It is more than adequate.’

‘Your courtesy does you credit. But you are accustomed to better, I deem, when you are not on the road.’ She paused and wondered why she was still nervous, before venturing, ‘Soon the king will return from Minas Tirith, and bring with him men of Gondor who wish to trade with Rohan. You wish to meet folk of other lands, and this you shall do in double measure.’  
  
He lowered his gaze. ‘I should fear to be in such exalted company, my lady.’ And as the stranger spoke, the shutters closed again. _As those quicksilver eyes change so does his temper, thought Morwen, but he is practised at concealing the storms. This boy has powerful passions in his soul and something has taught him to fetter them in the bonds of courtesy. How unlike Thengel he is! Her husband was undoubtedly a man of passions, but all Edoras knew his tempests, for he never troubled to hide them. Now, does he believe that Rohan’s queen is trying to seduce him? Indeed, can that be what I am doing? Take care, Morwen, or you may find that you are the one seduced._

‘But you will dine at Meduseld tonight.’ The words were out before she realised that she had opened her mouth. ‘The gathering will be small, no more than three or four. Then tomorrow we shall see.’  



	4. The Queen and the King's Councillor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This began as a shameless indulgence for my inner fan girl (you'll see why if you read on), in the hope of placating her for a while, but it has turned into a sort of soft hearted, humourous antidote to courtly love, and one possible solution to the old how did Thorongil get his name? question

Later Gálmód found her as she was overseeing the preparations for the guests. Morwen was not unhappy at this distraction, though she could feel him undressing her with his eyes even as he accosted her, first with pleasantries and then with questions about the foreigner. She was accustomed to his attentions, and they did not disturb her overmuch, for she trusted him to know when enough was enough. More importantly, so did Thengel; and he trusted his queen completely. Besides, she liked the man; for his wit, that never failed to challenge and surprise, for his charm, sparing, but honed for the moment, and for his lively face and the flame red hair that had won him the name ‘the fox’ among his peers. The dragging gait, from a misshapen foot that had marked him out since his birth, would have consigned lesser men to scratch a living on the edges of their people. Indeed it afforded Gálmód a peculiar fragility amongst the men at arms under his command, but no one who got to know him was long troubled by pity, much less by contempt. For none had more influence with the king than he. Since his youth he had ridden to the wars, rarely to fight, though he was skilled with a bow and on horseback was as agile as any man, but to observe and to study. And thus, no one knew better how to plan an ambush or execute a manoeuvre.  
  
‘I saw your latest guest today, my lady.’ His voice was gently mocking, but not unkind. ‘Where did you make such a fine catch?’  
  
Morwen smiled. ‘I hooked him out of the river, of course. At first, I thought him from Gondor, but he tells me that he hales from the north. He wishes to serve the king.’

‘A laudable quest,’ he replied solemnly. ‘And would you have him serve Thengel?’  
  
‘I would have him do whatever he will.’  
  
‘Provided you may watch him no doubt.’  
  
‘Gálmód, you are an impertinent wretch,’ laughed the queen. ‘Get thee gone or I shall have you beaten before the steps of Meduseld.’  
  
‘My lady, I tremble with fear at your feet. But this fellow is surely a great monument to manhood and should be slain lest he drive the rest of us feeble wretches to slit our own worthless throats.’

‘You have been in your cups again, my lord, and it is not yet noon. Besides, whatever his charms, he may ride like a lecherous dog and shoot like a drunkard. But in either event Thengel will remove you hence and put him in your place, if you do not treat your queen as befits your station and hers.’  
  
Gálmód executed the most elegant bow his infirmity would allow. ‘Your honeyed words are all the wine a man could ever want, my queen. If I should die today, I would die glad that you deigned to speak so in my hearing.’

‘Get out before I feed you to my dogs,’ growled Morwen in mock rage.

A picture of pained innocence, the king’s councillor fled from the chamber. However, his curiosity about the newcomer was genuine and he made his way to the horsehead fountain to seek this, his latest quarry.


	5. Galmod and the Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This began as a shameless indulgence for my inner fan girl (you'll see why if you read on), in the hope of placating her for a while, but it has turned into a sort of soft hearted, humourous antidote to courtly love, and one possible solution to the old how did Thorongil get his name? question

The fountain that stood before the steps to Meduseld afforded the best views across the town and beyond, over the river valley below, towards the rippling grasslands that fed the horses for which the Mark was rightly famed. Traders from far afield would come to Edoras to offer wealth in gold and other goods in exchange for the best of them; some welcome, like the elite mounted guard of the Steward of Gondor, few in number but high in honour, and others less so; mysterious outlanders of dubious character and origin, reticent with names and purpose. Gálmód was skilled in drawing out the most subtle bargainers whose business he suspected, leaving others to suffer the less searching, but sometimes more painful, interrogations by his men. However, this fellow apparently wished not to trade, but to serve, an offer that puzzled him, not especially for the fact of it, though that was interesting enough, but more the manner of his request. Only a man high in learning as well as courtesy would have the right demeanour to command the attention of the Queen and though Gálmód knew her weakness for a fair face, she was nobody’s fool, for had she not been educated at the court of Ecthelion?

Leaning on the wall to take the weight off his foot, he surveyed the stony ways that led through the town. The afternoon sun was not unpleasant, and presently his patience was rewarded as he noticed the figure of the stranger seated with his back turned on the low promontory that jutted from the south slope, almost directly above the gatehouse. He was staring out eastwards and southwards along the line of the mountains. He held a long stemmed pipe in his hand, and from his lips there rose a thin stream of grey smoke, which eddied across the void above the rocks as it was caught by the breeze. Gálmód made his way down to him.

‘I have heard of pipe-smoking,’ he remarked casually, sitting down nearby, ‘but it is not a custom we have adopted in the Mark for we have nothing of note to use as weed.’

The foreigner turned and studied Gálmód long before he answered. ‘This leaf is grown only in the north,’ he replied at last. ‘I do not think it would thrive here, for the air is dry and the soil too sandy.’ He offered the pipe to Gálmód, who shook his head.

‘I thank you, but no. I have never liked the idea of burning dead leaves in my mouth.’  
  
The other shrugged and then turned back and continued to stare into the distance. Gálmód watched him for a while, but his companion showed no sign of having anything further to add on the subject of pipe-weed, so presently he broke the silence.

‘You have walked far to study the scenery. Are there no mountains in your homeland?’  
  
’Yes, indeed,’ replied the other. ‘But forgive my ill manners. I was wondering, how far is it to Minas Tirith?’

’To Mundberg? I have been there only once and it was many days ride. Not worth the trouble to my mind.’

‘And why do you say that?’

‘It is fine enough if you like halls of stone. But nothing green grows in the whole city. And there are too few horses. The place is like a cave without a roof and the walls rise up sheer like cliff faces, ‘til you would think there was no sky above. And they say there is a single tree in the citadel, but it is long dead and has never been felled.’  
  
The foreigner raised an eyebrow. ‘There is no accounting for folk,’ he observed noncommittally.  
  
’And how long have you been on the road?’

’Long enough. More than two months all told, I think, though it is easy to forget the days. The road was not a straight one, and I was delayed.’

‘I have never walked so far.’ Gálmód surprised himself with the note of envy in his voice.

The man nodded, his eyes straying to Gálmód’s right foot. The king’s councillor glanced down and for the first time in years, he beheld the appendage as others might see it; an ugly deformity from above the ankle, its twisted and grotesque form ill disguised by the boot that cradled it.

‘That obvious is it?’  
  
‘I am sorry. I saw you this morning at Meduseld. I couldn’t help noticing.’

‘Nor can anyone.’ Gálmód grimaced. ‘I am accustomed to stares.’ Suddenly he realised that he felt uncomfortable under the searching gaze of the newcomer. It was an experience that startled him. He stiffened involuntarily.

‘I have offended you.’ The disquiet in the stranger’s pale features was real.

‘No,’ he faltered. ‘No you haven’t.’ It was no slight that Gálmód felt, only the inadequacy of his physical form next to this extraordinary youth.  
  
‘An old wound?’

‘I might wish so, but not unless you count my birth as a battlefield.’

‘And does it cause you pain?’

Odd that no one had ever asked the question before in all his thirty-three years. And yet it seemed the most natural inquiry in the world from this young foreigner who knew nothing of the lifetime of discomfort, and, lately, the shafts of agony that at times coursed through the malformed bones and wasted muscles. How well he had learned to hide them.  
  
‘Sometimes,’ he conceded.  
  
The stranger nodded and there was silence again as Gálmód sought a change of subject. He could see now why the queen was so fascinated. For all his reticence, this man had a poise about him that defied his youth and was more than his physical presence, impressive as that was; but Gálmód found himself inarticulate to define it. Then he was distracted by a familiar thirst tugging at his throat.

‘What do they do for sport in your homeland?’ he ventured.

The man looked surprised, but then his face broadened into a wide, sudden smile that lit his face.

‘We ride or hunt. We drink ale. Sometimes we sing and tell tales.’

Gálmód grinned. ‘I sing like a corncrake, but I can drink with the best of them. Come, let us continue in the alehouse.’

It was dark and warm in the tavern after the bright sunshine and the cooling breeze outside. The occupants of Gálmód’s customary corner quickly dispersed when they saw him come in, with respectful nods and the usual pleasantries. The stranger attracted curious stares, but few of the folk there knew the common speech, and most left him well alone, though they continued to watch as the landlord brought tankards and a jug of ale and set them down on the table.  
  
‘This is brewed from the best hops in the Riddermark, my friend,’ remarked Gálmód and, filling a tankard to the brim, pushed it towards the young man. He took it and, raising it to his lips, tasted the dark foaming liquid. Satisfaction spread across his face and he nodded his thanks.  
  
‘It is the best I have tasted since I left home.’ He sat back with legs outstretched, eyes glinting in the half-light. Then he went on,

‘I saw a great many horses some four days since, grazing the plains. I have never seen them running wild in such numbers .’

‘They are the pride of the Riddermark. There are no other such herds in all the west, they say.’

‘And there were others, few in number, but finer still and very swift. I have rarely seen their like. Tall and clean limbed and all of them silver like the moon.’  
  
Gálmód nodded. ‘The Mearas,’ he said. ‘Horses of the kings. They live long and are slaves to no man. But if they choose a human companion, they repay his friendship with a bond of loyalty and love that none can match.’ He drew a long thoughtful sip of ale. ‘And what of your horses? I take it that you can ride?’

‘Well enough. The horses of my people are tall and strong, broad in the shoulder and proud of bearing. They have thick coats to stay the winter snows and they can suffer great hardship.’

‘But you chose not to use one on your long journey. Why was that?’  
  
‘I was uncertain of the terrain and I knew little of what lay beyond our borders. A horse needs fodder and water, and they are nigh on impossible to conceal if you want to be discreet.’

‘And what need does a young fellow like you have for discretion, may I ask?’ Gálmód’s eyes narrowed as he leaned closer. However, if the stranger was discomforted, he did not show it.

‘Was there ever a time in the last age when a man abroad need not look to his own safety?’

A question for a question, thought Gálmód. A good strategy for evasion. He had used it many a time himself.

‘And you wish to serve Thengel King?’

‘If he will have me.’ The impassive features were kindled by a hint of fire.

‘You don’t look like the sort of man accustomed to service.’

‘There are few men in the world who are beholden to no one, my lord, be it only their wives or their mothers.’  
  
Gálmód laughed loud and long. ‘That I cannot deny.’ He paused and stared the other straight in the eye, green on grey. ‘So are you going to tell me your real business in Edoras, or do you plan to keep this up indefinitely?’

The foreigner did not answer immediately and his face said nothing until Gálmód discerned the hint of amusement deep in those penetrating eyes. It appeared that they understood one another.

‘If it is surety you seek,’ the youth said, ‘then I can give you nothing save my word. But if I fail in that then you may do with me as you will. For these days I have no home except the ground beneath my feet, and I wish only to make a living and to earn what honour I can by honest toil.’

‘Well answered, my friend!’ Gálmód sat back comfortably. ‘Very well, you may come before the king in due course. It is well for you that I think I like you, stranger from the north. But, before it is decided what use you may be, we must see what you are made of. Only the best of men may serve the King. You must learn to speak our tongue. And then there is the small matter of your name. Or are you going to tell me that you no longer possess one?’  
  
The man emitted something approaching a sigh; ’You may be nearer the mark than you think.’ Then the sudden smile again. ‘But you must ask the Queen. She will tell you my name.’  
  
Gálmód began to feel as though he had been excluded from a conspiracy, which irked him, as the most efficient conspirator in the Mark. And he could not deny a regard for his friendship with Morwen that was close to jealousy.

‘For my part, my name is no such mystery,’ he countered testily. ‘I am Gálmód, son of Gramlic and I am councillor to the king. If you become one of the King’s Men, and I mean if, then you shall be answerable to me. But a long apprenticeship awaits any that aspire to that distinction, no matter what their talent or birth.’

Several hours later the pair were seen to leave the alehouse together and, it was remarked by onlookers, somewhat the worse for wear.  



	6. Morwen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This began as a shameless indulgence for my inner fan girl (you'll see why if you read on), in the hope of placating her for a while, but it has turned into a sort of soft hearted, humourous antidote to courtly love, and one possible solution to the old how did Thorongil get his name? question

Morwen walked alone by the river, for she had given Éothain the slip. Alone that is, except for the massive brindle hound that she had brought with her, a parting gift from the Steward of Gondor. He was a better escort by far, for his loyalty was born of love and not duty and, more importantly, he remained silent.  
  
She watched an eagle sweep lazily across the sky, its wings seemingly motionless as it caught an upward draft and rose effortlessly until it almost left her sight. It was surely one of the great eagles of the Misty Mountains that seldom flew south, but when they did were hailed by the Rohirrim as heralds of great moment, revered and held in awe. The queen harboured no such superstition, but admired them as hunters of great magnificence, lords of the Hithaeglir. Once, as a young woman, she had been privileged to see one at close quarters, astonished to find herself gazing straight at the regal head, the stern face and those keen eyes, remote and lofty, but without disdain. They seemed to penetrate her thoughts and lay her heart bare. It was a moment that had entered her soul, and even years later she would try to capture the eagle’s likeness in her work, but she never caught it to her satisfaction.

Her thoughts turned to Thengel. She could hear his rich voice and feel his touch as though he was there walking with her, and it made her shiver with longing. Three months he had been gone and she missed his bear-like form, his kind face and great, gentle hands. Their children promised to be more like their mother; the boy, Théoden, slighter and shorter than his father, though he had Thengel’s pale blue eyes and the strong golden hair that had so drawn her to him in her youth. But his sisters had the dark locks and grey eyes of Gondor and ever reminded Morwen of her old home.

Grey eyes. Odd that the newcomer was not of Gondor. Apart from his skin, ivory rather than olive, he seemed in a strange way more Gondorric than many of her countrymen. But at the same time, there was that marked ‘otherness’ about him, in his eyes and especially in his manner and bearing. It felt almost otherworldly. And there was a grace and silence to his movements that reminded her of a cat.  
  
She began to ponder the words they had had on the subject of names. _A name is a title that a man must earn, not that which his mother gives him._ The men she knew were named by tradition or fancy. Many were the private moments when Thengel seemed to her less than a prince, and much less than a king, though the songs of their children would treat him far kinder than they had his father, she was certain. And Gálmód now, what manner of man would he have been, had he been born an Éomer or an Ælric? She laughed aloud. It seemed impossible that he could be anything other than what he was, but the coincidence troubled her. What had his mother been thinking? It seemed to her that the Rohirrim chose odd names for their sons. _‘Tis a heavy enough burden to name a child, even when his fate seems clear by his birth._ It was hard to imagine the boy, Théoden, as king, but such he would one day become, fate willing. As to herself, the name _Steelsheen_ , accorded her lately by the Eorlingas, both amused and moved her, more at any rate than Morwen, whose meaning she could scarce recall these days.  
  
But when it came to the foreigner; the more she learned about him, the more of a riddle he presented.

 

 

 

 

A/N;

 

 

Thengel (A.S.) _prince_

 

 

Galmod (A.S.) _licentious_

 

 

Theoden (A.S.) _king _  
__


	7. Galmod and the Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This began as a shameless indulgence for my inner fan girl (you'll see why if you read on), in the hope of placating her for a while, but it has turned into a sort of soft hearted, humourous antidote to courtly love, and one possible solution to the old how did Thorongil get his name? question

In the late afternoon the king’s man retreated to his chamber. His efforts to uncover the stranger had concluded with a quantity of ale more than usually sufficient to loosen the most reticent of tongues, and yet his subject had either the constitution of an ox or else he had somehow managed to consume less of the Mark’s best than Gálmód had thought. He preferred not to consider the third possibility, that he himself had lost his touch, for the young man had successfully evaded his probing at the alehouse, while giving the most disarming impression of an old and trusted friend. Gálmód was, moreover, forced to confess that he liked the man, which troubled him not a little, considering that he still had no name for him.

 

He sought solace in the hangings on his wall that depicted the famous victories of the sons of Eorl. From his boyhood he had always been able to let his mind slip easily into the tales and songs of old, so that his mother had despaired of him ever learning a trade, since the more sought after occupations of the Mark seemed quite out of his reach. _Little had she known_ , he reflected with amusement.

 

Presently he stirred at the sound of the queen singing softly in the great hall. _She rejoices at the king’s impending return_ , he thought. For himself, he had taken more pleasure in Thengel’s absence than was wise, and regret toyed with his resolve as he felt the familiar pangs of envy and shame. _Does she see how I fawn on her like one of her dogs when the king is abroad? Of course she does; for how could she not? The whole court must surely see it. It is a dangerous path that I tread and yet I cannot find the strength to step aside. If Thengel were my own brother I could not love him better, but Morwen! Why did you come into my life to torment me so?_

 

‘My lord Gálmód, you will join us tonight?’ The queen was standing in the doorway.

 

Gálmód started. ‘If I must, my lady,’ he replied, turning with alacrity.

 

‘And how did you fare with the foreigner? Have you learnt his name?’ There was a twinkle in her eyes.

 

‘I have not, my queen. But I think you already know that.’

 

‘Would it disturb you to hear that I have not yet learned it myself?’

 

This took Gálmód by surprise. ‘Eothain told me that you were already acquainted before you met at the fords.’

 

Morwen coloured a little. When Gálmód lit upon a riddle he generally pursued it as a dog gnaws a bone.

 

‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ she demurred softly. ‘I had seen him before.’

 

Gálmód gave her a look that she knew well. It said plainly that evasion was not going to succeed.

 

‘I watched him from the river bank, not half an hour earlier.’

 

He arched an eyebrow.

 

Morwen paused. Her reticence was only half pretended. ‘He was bathing,’ she ended lamely.

 

The look that returned her confession bore the severity of a father‘s reprimand. ‘If I did not know you better, my lady, I should say that you were ashamed.’

 

‘He did not see me,’ she added hastily. ‘I was hidden behind the willows.’

 

Gálmód folded his arms and a wide smile crept slowly across his narrow face as he enjoyed the image.

 

The queen laughed, awkwardly at first and then more loudly as she aimed a playful cuff at Gálmód’s ear. But he caught her hand before it reached its mark and swiftly put it to his cheek, brushing it with a kiss that would have caressed her face a moment later. Morwen’s laughter died on her lips and she gently unfolded his grasp with her other hand, her eyes full of sorrow. Gálmód stepped back, averting his gaze, eyes half closed and face twisted in silent shame.

 

‘Forgive me, Gálmód,’ the queen said gently.

 

‘The fault is mine.’ His voice was barely above a whisper. He turned to leave, but this time it was she who caught his hand.

 

‘Is there no other lady in Edoras that pleases you, my lord?’ Her voice was so tender that Gálmód feared he might weep.

 

‘You know there is not,’ he replied once he had mastered himself. ‘How could there be?’

 

‘Yet all of Rohan knows the name of Gálmód son of Gramlic. Any woman would be glad to wed the king’s man.’

 

‘Please, do not condescend to me, my lady, I beg you.’

 

‘I do you no such disservice, sir.’ Morwen’s face grew grave. ’You have high honour in this land. You have the king’s trust and you are loved by all who know you, for your courage and your wit. Do not lower yourself by speaking so.’

 

Slowly he met her gaze. ‘I have insulted you and betrayed the king’s trust.’

 

‘You have done neither. But I shall be offended if you refuse to accept my words, Gálmód.’

He recovered himself a little. ’I fear I cannot believe them, my queen. For surely the plainest women in Edoras would sooner wed the king‘s horse than Gálmód, court jester and chief sewer rat.’ He managed a smile and the queen returned it warmly.

 

‘No doubt Thengel will order you to marry, lest you pickle your manhood before you get a son worthy of his father. Then you shall see that I am right.’

 

‘Thank-you my lady,’ answered Gálmód wryly and fled from the hall for the second time that day.


	8. Morwen and Thengel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This began as a shameless indulgence for my inner fan girl (you'll see why if you read on), in the hope of placating her for a while, but it has turned into a sort of soft hearted, humourous antidote to courtly love, and one possible solution to the old how did Thorongil get his name? question

Within the hour and against all expectation, for no herald had been sent ahead, the King himself returned from Mundburg and the whole of Edoras rejoiced to see him riding through the town with his retinue. But he had no time for the townsfolk nor for news, until he had greeted his queen and held her in his arms. And Morwen's heart leapt when she heard his great voice ringing through the Golden Hall and saw him at last. He stood before her, dishevelled, his coat stained with travel and mud on his boots, but majestic and larger than life, just as she always pictured him.

 

 

'Oh my lady Morwen, I have missed you!' he cried and grasped her to him until she could hardly breathe. For not only were her ribs constricted, but his ripe, masculine odour was almost overpowering.

 

 

‘Have you not washed since you left the White City, my lord?’ she gasped.  


 

She drew back so that she could look into his face and smiled, grey eyes shining. He grinned, ignoring the slight against his dignity.

 

 

'I shall not ride to Gondor again without you. It is too costly a price to be parted for so long.'

 

 

'But you know how I hate to travel,' she laughed, 'and Minas Tirith is so dusty. And if we must go then you must promise to bathe in the river on the journey. Then let us at least visit Lossarnach so that I may walk in the olive groves again and see my old home.'

 

 

'An excellent bargain, my queen. Be sure that I shall keep my word. And how have you amused yourself in my absence?'

 

 

The Queen regarded her husband sternly. 'I fear that I nearly did violence to lord Eothain. He took your words too much to heart. That alone would drive me to Minas Tirith with you next time, for he is more tiresome than many days of rain.'

 

 

'I am sorry. A worthy protector, but he has less conversation than Théoden's nurse.'

 

 

'Less conversation? I never heard a man take so long to say so little. And he wore out my ears with his platitudes. I should have had more peace with the jackdaws.'

 

 

'Was there nothing to lighten your heart?'

 

 

Morwen smiled. 'A stranger has come to Edoras. He seeks to serve you.'

 

 

'All the men of Rohan serve me and Edoras draws then like moths to the flame.'

 

 

'This fellow is not of Rohan, but a young nobleman from the north.'

 

 

That caught his attention.

 

 

'He has certain qualities that intrigue me. And Gálmód had long talk with him but learnt very little.'

 

 

'He is close then, if his is not a mute.’

 

 

‘But Gálmód likes him I think.'

 

 

'As do you, I fear,' laughed the king. 'I shall certainly not go abroad again without you and if I find that Éothain has failed in his duty, I shall have him gelded.'

 

 

'Blame not Éothain, but your absence, Thengel, my love,' murmured the queen as she slipped a hand inside his coat and dropped it deftly to the floor.

 

 

‘Then I shall swiftly make amends,’ answered Thengel and his fingers began to search for the laces on her gown. But Morwen slipped beyond the reach of his great hands.

 

 

‘Not until you are clean, sir, even if I have to throw you into a horse trough myself. Besides we have company at our board this evening.’

 

 

Thengel groaned. ‘Then I shall have them thrown out.’

 

 

‘You shall not, my lord! If you come home unannounced then you should not expect to find the queen alone and awaiting your bidding.’


	9. Star Eagle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This began as a shameless indulgence for my inner fan girl (you'll see why if you read on), in the hope of placating her for a while, but it has turned into a sort of soft hearted, humourous antidote to courtly love, and one possible solution to the old how did Thorongil get his name? question

That evening Gálmód arrived early with his friend Ælric, sister son to Thengel and newly appointed Marshal of West-mark. He was still shaken from his encounter with the queen and despite the quantity of ale already inside him, or perhaps because of it, was not his usual razor-sharp self. But Ælric was in high spirits at his promotion, despite the ever looming threat from Dunland.

 

 

 

'Your father would have been proud to see you now,' remarked Gálmód gravely as they climbed the steps to Meduseld.

 

 

 

'He had no use for 'warmongering,' as he called it,' said the Marshal. 'A waste of good pasture in his eyes. But it is because of him that I am here today.'

 

 

 

'A born farmer makes an unwilling warrior. But you have the blood of Eorl on your mother's side and were made for greater deeds.'

 

 

 

'Bloodier ones, maybe.' Ælric laughed. As they entered the hall he glanced round and saw the northerner leaving the guesthouse below. 'Is that your pretty boy down there? Were it not for that scrap of a beard, I should have taken him for a maiden.'

 

 

 

Gálmód almost exploded, his sorrows forgotten. 'My horse's arse, Ælric, you're right! No real man was ever so fair. Think you the beard is false?'

 

 

 

'Undoubtedly,' agreed Ælric. 'We may have to put it to the test before long.'

 

 

 

'The lady fancies herself in the king's service,' returned Gálmód.

 

 

 

'And in his bedchamber too no doubt. But soft now. She comes.'

 

 

 

The newcomer mounted the steps to the Golden Hall. He had changed the blue shirt for one of green and the mud on his boots was gone. The dark locks were braided now, though not after the manner of the Mark and, unaccustomed to their bonds, the braids moved restlessly about his shoulders. Moreover, they afforded their owner a look that seemed older than his face allowed, for the depth of his gaze was revealed anew.

 

 

 

Ælric studied the young man with interest. The youth inclined his head in brief acknowledgement and smiled.

 

 

 

'This is lord Ælric, Marshal of West-mark,' said Gálmód.

 

 

 

'Are all the men of the North so fair, or just you, sir?' Ælric could barely conceal his mirth.

 

 

 

The stranger frowned, but replied solemnly, 'I confess I do not know, my lord. I am ill fitted to judge such a question. Perhaps you have more experience in such matters of taste than I.'

 

 

 

The smirk on Ælric's countenance lingered just long enough for the inference to sink in before turning to horror as the newcomer regarded him and, smiling benignly, came to his rescue.

 

 

 

'I have heard great tales of the valour of the men of Westfold. You must be mighty indeed to lead them in battle.’

 

 

 

Ælric grunted an unintelligible reply and turned on his heel to lead the way into the hall. The king and his queen were already seated and generous quantities of venison, bread and fruit were laid out before them. It was a relaxed meal even by the standards of Edoras and this always pleased Morwen as she had never enjoyed the forced formality of dining at the court of Ecthelion. The guests bowed low before their king, but apart from that and the rich furnishings and plentiful board, there was little to distinguish their supper from others that were at that moment being served in any farmhouse across the Mark.

 

 

 

The king greeted Gálmód and Ælric warmly and glanced dourly at his cousin Éothain, whom the queen had invited in a last minute gesture of regretful magnanimity. Then he surveyed the foreigner with a critical eye as though he was examining a horse. When he was satisfied he turned to the queen expectantly.

 

 

 

‘May I present a guest friend, my lords?’ began Morwen at last. ‘He has lately come to Rohan from the north.’

 

 

 

All waited patiently, but the northerner made no sign.

 

 

 

‘And his name?’ The king could be trusted not to stand on ceremony.

 

 

 

In a moment's hesitation, the queen recalled the rayed star at the stranger's shoulder and the gaze of those stern grey eyes. Then she knew.

 

 

 

‘He is Thorongil, my lords. That is ‘Star-Eagle’ in your tongue.’

 

 

 

'Star Eagle?’ said Gálmód. ‘That is a strange name for a strange fellow.'

 

 

 

But Morwen’s eyes were on the stranger. He returned her gaze, smiling, and nodded his assent.


End file.
